


but as long as you love me so

by ericdire (aarobron)



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: 12 Days of Christmas, Fluff, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:54:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21953260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aarobron/pseuds/ericdire
Summary: “Good morning, baby,” Virgil murmurs, lips brushing against Jordan’s skin. He’s smiling, voice bright despite the fact the sun hasn’t even risen yet, but there’s no time to rest when their schedule is so packed. “Merry Christmas.”"It's," Jordan says, rolling out of Virgil's grip. The loss of body heat feels awful and he shivers, but reaches for his watch on the bedside table anyway, squinting at it with sore eyes before rolling back into his boyfriend's arms. It feels like it's exactly where he belongs. "It's the fourteenth, Virg."
Relationships: Virgil van Dijk/Jordan Henderson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35





	but as long as you love me so

**Author's Note:**

> merry christmas everyone! i hope you enjoy this fluff xxx
> 
> feedback always appreciated, thank you for reading!! xx

**_14.12_ **

There’s teeth on Jordan’s neck, sharp and stinging, when he wakes up. That and a hand sliding under his worn t-shirt, fingers spidering across his ribs as the teeth sink in a little deeper, and he gasps, rocking back into the body behind him.

“Good morning, baby,” Virgil murmurs, lips brushing against Jordan’s skin. He’s smiling, voice bright despite the fact the sun hasn’t even risen yet, but there’s no time to rest when their schedule is so packed. “Merry Christmas.” 

"It's," Jordan says, rolling out of Virgil's grip. The loss of body heat feels awful and he shivers, but reaches for his watch on the bedside table anyway, squinting at it with sore eyes before rolling back into his boyfriend's arms. It feels like it's exactly where he belongs. "It's the fourteenth, Virg."

"Well, I suppose you won't want your first present then," Virgil says, pout evident in his voice. He doesn't move away though, just presses soft kisses to Jordan's neck as the tips of his fingers graze teasingly over his nipple, and he smirks when Jordan gasps, head dropping back against his shoulder. "Will you?"

Jordan rolls onto his back, nudging Virgil until he’s begrudgingly rising to rest on one elbow as his left knee slips between Jordan’s legs. “I want anything you’re willing to give me,” Jordan says – coyly, innocently. He blinks a few times, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, and Virgil rolls his eyes but his dick hardens against Jordan’s thigh anyway.

“You’ve got a filthy mind,” Virgil murmurs, dipping his head to kiss the corner of Jordan’s mouth. He nudges his nose against Jordan’s like he’s trying to stop himself from breaking character too soon, but then he does it anyway, kissing him fiercely. “In the gutter, really. Shouldn’t lower myself to your standards.” 

“Fuck off,” Jordan snaps, but there’s no heat in it and he doesn’t get anything else out before Virgil is kissing him properly, one hand sliding into his hair and the other rucking his t-shirt up. He lets himself get lost in it, making a noise at the back of his throat when Virgil’s tongue brushes against his. Really, he’s at mercy – wants to spend the rest of his life in this bed with this man. He couldn’t move even if he wanted to. 

Virgil slides Jordan’s t-shirt over his head and then hooks the tips of his fingers under the waistband of his shorts, the grazing contact making the older man shiver. His hand doesn’t move any lower, just teases Jordan with a single touch as he sucks tiny bruises into his neck. He’s driving him crazy and he knows it. 

“Please,” Jordan gasps, because he’s not above begging. It seems to work; Virgil hums, lips pressed against Jordan’s throat, and slips his boxers down his legs before taking his own clothes off. The skin on skin makes Jordan whine, fingers curling around the back of Virgil’s neck just for something to hold onto. 

“What do you want?” Virgil asks. It’s barely a murmur, his mouth ghosting over Jordan’s, and his dick slides against the crease of Jordan’s thigh, and he has never, ever felt so desperate. He doesn’t know why – it’s not like their sex life is lacking; Virgil sucked him off in the shower last night before they went to sleep, but he just _wants_. Maybe it’s the fact the sun hasn’t even risen yet, making it feel almost secretive. Or maybe it’s just Virgil, the blown pupils of his eyes, his kiss swollen mouth, the delicate touch of his hands on Jordan’s skin.

It’s probably just Virgil.

“You – I want you,” Jordan breathes. It works, says everything he needs to, because Virgil smiles down at him, a sweet little thing that graces his face gorgeously. And then Jordan loses the capacity to speak, because Virgil is pushing his fingers in, not letting him catch his breath, and he’s burning up from the inside out.

Virgil takes his time; his fingers drag deliciously against Jordan’s prostate until he’s letting out broken little whimpers, dick smearing wet against his stomach. Virgil takes pleasure in it, honestly, judging by the satisfied grin on his face, but he always knows when to stop teasing too. He pulls his fingers out with a gentle kiss to Jordan’s lips, as if he’s trying to distract from the obscene sound of him slicking up his own dick.

“Love you,” Virgil whispers, and then he’s pushing in in one quick movement. It burns – but in the right way, the best way, and Jordan brings his fist to his mouth so he can bite down on his knuckles. It’s so overwhelming, always overwhelming when they’re this close.

They’re practically the same person like this.

It’s slow, Virgil’s hands pressing bruises onto Jordan’s hips and his mouth hot against his collarbone, and he doesn’t say a word. He lets the sensations speak for themselves, and it’s not long before Jordan is swearing, begging, _broken_. At the very least, Virgil feels the same – judging by the desperation that’s flavouring his messy kisses. That’s a comfort.

He comes with a sob, fingernails scratching red paths down Virgil back as the younger man soothes him through it, and it’s not long before Virgil himself is coming too. It feels – incredible, if Jordan is being honest, like he’s being claimed. Like he could never be anyone else’s now.

And all he wants is for everyone to know who he belongs to.

“Fuck,” Virgil sighs, falling onto his back. He’s staring at the ceiling with a little smile on his face, not quite self satisfied but definitely approaching it. It’s too soft to be cocky, really, but Jordan wouldn’t mind either way. He rolls into Virgil’s chest, pressing a kiss to the warm skin there.

Virgil’s arm comes up to curl around his shoulders automatically, in a way that he’s done a million times before. It’s nice, this little routine, but it’s not boring. Jordan doesn’t think it ever could be boring, because he falls in love with Virgil all over again, every single day.

“That better not be my only present,” Jordan says with a pout. He’s joking (mostly), and he pillows his head on Virgil’s bicep so he can look up at the younger man. Virgil scoffs, but his free hand finds Jordan’s and he tangles their fingers together, resting on his stomach. “I can have sex with you any time – and it’s not even Christmas.” 

“Don’t worry,” Virgil says, smiling secretively. He’s already dozing off again though, eyelids heavy and breathing evening out, and they really don’t have the time for this – they’ve got training in an hour – but Jordan doesn’t quite have the heart to shake him awake. Not when he looks so soft, so peaceful. “You’ve got plenty to look forward to. Promise.” 

Jordan thinks that he’ll just have to take his word for it.

**_15.12_ **

Jordan is exhausted. More so than he has been in a long time, really. They probably underestimated Watford, but it's true what they say: new manager bounce really does turn a squad into a completely different team. They put up more of a fight than anyone else so far this season.

Even Spurs, who had scored inside two minutes and tried not to let Liverpool break them defensively for the next hour weren't as bad as this. They weren't even _close_.

And okay, maybe he hadn't had his best game. There was a sense of anticipation building around the squad, because they're travelling to Qatar in two days time. They're determined, all of them, to be the first Liverpool side to win the Club World Cup. Yeah, they've won the Champions League, and the Super Cup, but they want _more_. It's what drives them.

So Jordan has been distracted. He's already been thinking ahead, brain too preoccupied with the dry air of the Middle East. It helps that Virgil didn't have a great game, either – he's pretty sure his entire life flashed before his eyes with that dodgy back pass. 

It means that Virgil doesn't blame him, though. He doesn't pity him, or try and give him useless advice. If anything, they just smile at each other, trying not to laugh at how fucking ridiculous the game was. Especially now, after Mo's second goal, because that was an obscene finish. At least they're going into Christmas top of the table with a substantial gap, and the chance of getting their hands on another trophy.

They spend a couple of hours analysing the game at Melwood (because Klopp wants them to spend the next two days preparing for the Club World Cup), but it's not too intensive, because even Klopp knows how bewildering the game was. They got lucky, but they also didn't. They deserved to win, because they always do. Their character is proof enough of that. 

Virgil drives them home. He drives the way he always does, with one hand on the wheel and the other on Jordan's thigh, humming along to the radio and occasionally offering him a grin. It's tiny, secretive, like _we-know-something-nobody-else-does_. It's true though, because what they've got, these feelings between – nobody will ever, ever understand. Jordan doesn't want them to, either.

He's not sure if Virgil even knows he's doing it, but every stolen glance, every moment of simple domesticity steals the breath from his lungs. He'd never expected this, honestly, on that very first day he met Virgil and thought, _I could easily fall in love with you_ , because he never expected Virgil to feel the same. And it took a while for them both to realise, and Jordan had almost gotten to a point where he didn't think it would happen, but they're here now. That's what counts.

"Do you want a cup of tea?" Virgil asks, the minute they've stepped into the house. He's already toed his trainers off and is making his way into the kitchen, glancing back over his shoulder like he doesn't know the answer already. This is their routine now.

"Yes please," Jordan says, calling after Virgil. He heads through to the living room, pausing to turn the Christmas tree lights on, and then throws himself on the sofa, toes curling at the chill of the house. He regrets not leaving the heating on.

He can hear Virgil clattering about in the kitchen as he turns the TV on, settling on a channel that's playing Christmas music, and smiles to himself. He's so used to an empty house – he'd lived with Adam until things had got properly serious with Emily, and as apologetic as his best friend was, he couldn't let him stay just for the sake of Jordan. They were adults, and somethings were more important (like Adam's fiance, for Christ's sake). Besides, he'd gotten used to the loneliness in the end.

But then Virgil had come along. He spends almost every night at Jordan's house, shrugging and going a faint pink colour when the older man teases him about it, but really, it's nice. Jordan loves it, loves not being alone, loves knowing that even if he wakes up to an empty bed, Virgil will only be a few metres away, putting the kettle on or making him breakfast.

"Here," Virgil says, snapping Jordan out of his thoughts. He carefully places the mug into Jordan's outstretched hands and then sits next to him, close enough that their thighs are pressed together despite the miles of space the other side. And then he waits, until Jordan has nestled against his side in the way that he always does, and drops a gift bag into his lap.

"What's this?" Jordan asks, frowning down at the bag. It's tiny and red, glittering from the reflection of the tree lights, and he scratches the corner of his thumbnail over the little rope handle of the bag. Virgil presses a smile into the crown of his head, arm squeezing tight around his shoulders.

"I told you you've got plenty to look forward to," Virgil says, like it's obvious. Jordan thinks back to yesterday morning – although it seems so long ago now, especially considering the bollocking they got off Klopp for being late – and rolls his eyes, muttering, _I didn't_ mean _it_ , even though Virgil ignores it. "Well, open it then." 

Jordan smiles, knowing he's not going to win this one, and smooths his thumb under the little piece of sticky tape that's keeping the bag closed. Whatever the gift is it wrapped in gold tissue paper – "club colours, yeah?" Jordan asks, and Virgil smirks – and he glances up at the younger man once before unwrapping the carefully folded edges.

It's a tiny replica of the Champions League trophy, no bigger than three inches, and there's a little ribbon at the top. He knows what it is immediately, but still glances up at Virgil, looping it around his index finger and closing his fist around it. "I know you only got me this because you think it's sexy when I lift trophies," Jordan says, even though his voice is a little choked from the emotion. 

"Specially made," Virgil murmurs, using the arm that's curled around Jordan's shoulders to coax him to his feet. He leads him to the tree, then steps back, fingers brushing over the back of his neck before dropping completely, to let him hang the decoration. "Just because it makes me want to drop to my knees."

Jordan huffs out a laugh but doesn't dignify it with a response, scanning the branches of the tree to find a suitable place for it. He finds one, stretching up on his tiptoes to hang it, but can't quite reach – not without tipping face first into the tree – and curses Adam for bringing him such a ridiculously massive one. He didn't even _ask_.

Virgil hums, delighted (and Jordan knows why) and then steps up behind him. One of his arms snakes around his waist, palm on Jordan's stomach to steady himself, and his other hand curves around Jordan's. He stretches up and pushes the ornament onto the tree, pausing for a second to admire it, then drops a chaste kiss behind Jordan's ear.

"You know, if I had you around all the time I'd have no use for a step ladder," Jordan says, clearing his throat. He's trying to ignore the fact that tears are stinging at the back of his eyes from the warm brush of Virgil's lips against his skin, to ignore the fact that he's never felt more loved than right here, right now. "Although you are here more often than you're at your own house, so I don't have much use for one as it is."

"It's not my fault," Virgil says. He's pouting, but he pulls Jordan even closer against his chest and slides his other arm around his waist, chin resting on the top of his head. "Your house is closer to training. And your bed's comfier. And, well, you're here, aren't you?"

"Soft," Jordan murmurs, but he can't stop thinking about the little piece of cold metal that's been tucked away in a drawer for the past six weeks. No time like the present, he decides, and spins in Virgil's arms so that he can look up at him. "You could be here all the time... If you wanted to, I mean." 

"Yeah," Virgil breathes. A grin spreads across his face as it sinks in, and he curves his palm around Jordan's cheek – like he's holding him still to look at him properly, to try and find a sign or anything that shows he doesn't mean it. Well, Jordan means it more than anything. "Yeah. I'd like that." 

When Virgil kisses him, slow and deep, he doesn't have the heart to break away to get the key. He doesn't have the heart to tell him that he's been meaning to ask for a few weeks now, but he's been far too scared. He doesn't have the heart to do anything but get lost in the feeling, looping his arms around Virgil's neck and kissing him back.

At least they'll be able to do this whenever they want, now. In _their_ own home.

That's always a bonus.

**_16.12_ **

They had an afternoon training session. Klopp was careful not to push them too far at this time of year, what with the cold weather and amount of games they had, so it was a four hour session, two of which were spent inside, talking about formation and positioning. Easy enough, and the kind of thing that Virgil liked to discuss deep into the next day, so Jordan didn't have to listen too hard. Virgil would inevitably tell him it again another three times anyway.

He's still shattered when they get home though, ready to settle down and not move until he eventually drags himself to bed. There's something about the bitter December chill that makes him want to bury himself under a blanket and work his way through just about anything he can find on Netflix (although these days, he doesn't need a blanket, because Virgil runs hot and is more than willing to let Jordan slide a hand under his sweatshirt).

Virgil makes them dinner most nights. Jordan had tried at first, but he somehow managed to burn pasta _twice in a row_ , and Virgil had declared that he couldn't stand to watch his favourite food be treated like that, so he made dinner from then on. 

It's the same tonight. Virgil cooks, just something simple with roasted vegetables and chicken that Mona approved enthusiastically, and Jordan eats it on autopilot, already thinking about the next episode of Narcos – and eventually, the ten hours sleep he intends to get.

He doesn't notice the box until he's already halfway through his dinner, and the little encouraging nudges Virgil has been giving him finally start to make sense. He abandons his fork, reaching over to the side of the dining table that they don't use (unless they have guests, of course) and picks the box up. It's one of those CD-shaped gift boxes, the kind that his mum used to get from Poundland by the dozen. It makes him wonder where Virgil got it.

Probably Jordan's mum, if he's being honest. He's convinced they conspire against him.

There's no point in asking what it is, because Virgil clearly has a little plan going – presents three days in a row, it's not a coincidence – and he opens the box with no finesse, because he simply doesn't have the energy for it. The corner tears, and Virgil jokingly makes a little wounded sound. Jordan kicks him under the table.

"A mixtape?" Jordan asks noncommittally, flipping the CD around so he can look at Virgil's scrawling handwriting across the front of it, reading **Jordan's mixtape! <3 <3 <3** like they're fourteen and in high school all over again. Virgil probably found the CD pen in the same junk drawer as the gift box in his mum's house. "On a CD? What is this, 1994?" 

"Don't be a brat," Virgil says, rolling his eyes. It's the same tone that his mum uses on him more often than not, so they're definitely conspiring. It doesn't make him uncomfortable – instead, he just feels warm knowing that they get on so well. "You should be grateful I took the time to make you it." 

"What's on it?" Jordan asks, opening the plastic case. He doesn't know what he's expecting – the case is clear and there's evidently not a bit of paper listing the songs on it, but he still feels a little disappointed that nothing falls out. "See, you might have forgotten because most people just use Spotify these days, but normally when you make a CD you write down what's on it. It's called a tracklist." 

"Now you're just being pedantic," Virgil says, reaching over and snatching the CD out of Jordan's hands. The older man frowns, opening his mouth to start complaining that it's his gift and that means nobody is allowed to snatch it, but Virgil's foot hooks around his leg and his toes dig into the back of his knee, where it's sensitive and any pressure is slightly painful. "It's part one of two, so you'll have to wait till tomorrow to find out." 

Jordan huffs out a sigh, knowing he's being childish but not really caring. It's all light-hearted anyway, and Virgil grins at him with bared teeth as he kicks his foot away. "You're lucky I love you, you know," he mutters, and tries not to flush at the way Virgil's eyes go soft around the corners.

**_17.12_ **

"Hey," Virgil whispers, fingers brushing Jordan's hair off his forehead. He clamps his other hand around his shoulder and shakes gently, so mouth so close to Jordan's ear that he can feel the ghost of his breath on his skin. "Wake up, sleepy head."

"No," Jordan groans, rolling away from Virgil and dragging the duvet over his head. He knows his alarm hasn't gone off yet so it must be early, and besides. They have a day off before they fly to Qatar, and Jordan intends to spend it catching up on sleep. "Go 'way."

"C'mon, babe," Virgil whispers. His voice is low, quiet, and his hand slides across Jordan's chest so that he's hugging him loosely. The angle is weird but Virgil is warm, so he lets himself be manhandled, leaning back against the younger man's body. When he speaks again, his words are teasing. "Don't you want today's present? You'll love it, I promise."

"I didn't _ask_ for it," Jordan says, knowing full well he sounds every bit of the grumpy old man that Virgil always says he is. Still, he opens his eyes anyway, feeling some of the anger melt away when he sees Virgil's smiling face above him.

"I know, but I love you enough to do it anyway," Virgil hums, pressing a chaste kiss to Jordan's lips. He tangles his fingers with Jordan's and then pulls away from the embrace, up until he's kneeling on the edge of the bed and pulling Jordan up with him. It's cold in their bedroom, still pitch black out (so stupidly fucking early), and Jordan does _not_ want to go anywhere. He tells Virgil this, and gets nothing but a smile in return.

Virgil - already dressed, Jordan notes, how long has he been awake? - leaves him sat on the bed, head in his hands and desperate to go back to sleep, to rummage through the drawers on the other side of the room. Jordan is too tired to care, really, but when Virgil comes back, he's got a pile of folded clothes in his hands. Jeans (the ones that Virgil likes, the ones that are ridiculously tight) and t-shirt, plus a hoodie _and_ his biggest coat. He's seriously concerned about where they're going now.

He gets dressed and lets Virgil lead him to the car, the arm around his waist unnoticeable in the darkness. Virgil even reaches across to pull Jordan's seatbelt across his body, then kisses his forehead, right there on the driveway. It's a bold move, and normally Jordan would be freaking out about it, but right now he can't quite bring himself to care. Instead, he smiles up at Virgil and squeezes his hand.

"Didn't you say this was part two of a present?" Jordan murmurs, rolling his head along the seat to look at Virgil when he gets into the driver's seat. The younger man is already smiling fondly, cheeks flushed from the cold air, and he twists to reach into the backseat. When he's sitting straight again, he's waving the mixtape that he'd given Jordan yesterday.

"You're clever, aren't you," Virgil says. He's smirking but it's soft, and he fiddles with the built in stereo, leaning back with an accomplished grin when he puts the CD in. Seconds later, the sounds of Alicia Keys fill the car, and Jordan rolls his eyes. He regrets ever mentioning it.

"Are you serious?" Jordan sighs, reaching over to turn it off. Virgil slaps his hand away, then rubs the bit of skin he hit gently when Jordan whines dramatically. He tangles their fingers together, peering over at Jordan in the passenger seat with an innocent look on his face.

"It's just-" Virgil starts, then stops, taking a deep breath as a flush travels from the tips of his ears, down his throat, and then disappears under the collar of his jumper. Jordan feels blessed to know Virgil well enough to be able to imagine the pinkness of his chest, across his ribs (which is where the blush stops). “All of these songs remind me of you, I guess. I know it’s a bit soppy, but–”

“No,” Jordan breathes quietly. Virgil shuts up straight away, peering at Jordan with wide, almost terrified eyes, and smiles when the older man covers his hand on the gear stick with his own. “No, it’s perfect. Thank you.” 

“Why don’t you go back to sleep?” Virgil says. He’s smiling bashfully, head dipped, but his thumb brushes across Jordan’s knuckles as he starts the car and begins to reverse out of the driveway. “I’ll wake you up when we get there, alright? Get some sleep.” 

Jordan murmurs thank you and rests his forehead against the cold glass window, eyes slipping shut. He’s still exhausted, limbs feeling heavy as his mind fights to stay awake, but it doesn’t take long until he can feel himself finally drifting off. As he falls asleep, Alicia Keys is singing in the background: _you and me together through the days and nights, i don’t worry ‘cause everything’s gonna be alright_.

He finally understands what she means.

.

He wakes up slowly, taking a few minutes to stare out of the window before feeling like he can really function. Long stretches of grey tarmac turn into houses and old oak trees, and it takes a second for Jordan to recognise the familiar streets, to work out where they are.

“Blackpool?” He says, finally pulling his face away from the window and straightening up. Virgil glances at him out of the corner of his eye, reaching over to curl his fingers around Jordan’s thigh now that he’s away. “You brought me to Blackpool?” 

“You told me once that you came here with your family when you were a kid,” Virgil explains. He doesn’t take his eyes off of the road, leaning forward to check road names so he doesn’t miss their turning. Jordan could tell him where to go, would know even with his eyes closed, because he spent so many hours watching his dad drive it when he was younger, but there’s something hypnotising about the side profile of Virgil’s face, the sweep of his eyelashes and the pout that he doesn’t mean to do when he can’t find what he’s looking for. “So I wanted to bring you back. I know it’s not exactly the Maldives or whatever but – I just wanted to bring you somewhere that makes you happy.” 

The mixtape is still playing, quieter than it was when Jordan fell asleep, but he can still make out the words. He doesn’t recognise this song, but the words _nobody knows you the way that i know you, look in my eyes i will never desert you_ filter through the speakers, and Jordan’s chest feels tight.

“You do,” Jordan says suddenly, cutting through the silence. Virgil doesn’t look over but he frowns, clearly not understanding what Jordan is trying to say, so he clears his voice and tries again. “You make me happy. You’re all I need.” 

“I love you,” Virgil says, voice sounding choked with emotion. Jordan would gladly take the piss if he didn’t feel exactly the same. Virgil finally finds the car park he’s looking for and pulls in, parking up right at the far side, facing onto the beach. They’re the only people here by the looks of it – which isn’t inconceivable, really, considering it’s fucking _December_.

Still, he turns and looks at Jordan with an expectant look on his face, so the older man leans across the centre console and presses a soft kiss to his mouth. “I love it. Thank you,” he murmurs, kissing him again just because he can. 

“Stay there,” Virgil instructs, releasing his seatbelt and throwing the door open. The cold air makes Jordan shiver, but he supposes he’d better get used to it. Virgil rounds the car and opens the passenger side door with a flourish, bowing as Jordan gets out. “After you, sir.” 

Jordan rolls his eyes but can’t help the laugh that bubbles up his throat, pushing at Virgil’s shoulder to get him to straighten up. They’re lucky they’re alone, Jordan thinks, especially when Virgil steps closer and curls his arm around Jordan’s waist, pulling him against his side. For body warmth, is what Virgil says, but also Jordan knows it’s because he just wants to be close. He understands, really. 

The sand is frozen when they step onto the beach, and the sea is calm, small waves lapping at the shore. There’s a figure in the distance, far enough away that the person looks barely an inch big, and the dog that’s running around their ankles looks even smaller. Jordan decides it’s safe enough to lean up and kiss his boyfriend, and even if it wasn’t, well – it’s Christmas. He can’t quite bring himself to care. He decides that he’s allowed at least one day off from being Jordan Henderson, Captain of Liverpool FC.

Today, he’s going to be Jordan Henderson, the man who gets to be in love with Virgil van Dijk, and nobody else.

.

They don’t get back in the car until gone seven, clutching a paper bag of fish and chips that definitely won’t help them during this busy schedule, but Jordan couldn’t care less right now. He’s just had one of the best days of his life, and he doesn’t want it to end – so, quite simply, he’s not going to let it.

Virgil cranks the heating up while they eat their tea, laughing about the terrible Father Christmas they’d encountered on Pleasure Beach. The fact they’ve got these memories, always adding new ones, it makes something squeeze tight around Jordan’s heart. He never even thought Virgil would be interested in him like that, and now to be here, sharing fish and chips in a car park on Lytham St Anne’s beach before they drive back to the home they share.

Sometimes, Jordan has to pinch himself just to make sure he’s not dreaming.

The rest of the mixtape plays out as they start driving back. The Smashing Pumpkins, which frankly Jordan didn’t know Virgil even knew but reminds him of being an angsty teenager. It’s perfect, really, for summing up exactly how Jordan feels about Virgil. He reaches across the car and links their fingers together.

“Love you,” he murmurs when the CD comes to an end. All he can hear is the general traffic noise from outside of the car, but generally, in their little bubble, it’s silent. Virgil’s breathing sounds like music to his ears, sounds like the only thing he’s ever wanted to listen to. “I’ve had such a perfect day. Thank you, Virg.” 

“You don’t have to thank me. You know that,” Virgil says softly, squeezing Jordan’s hand. His fingers are still cold from walking along the seafront for what felt like hours, and Jordan can’t help but lift their hands to his mouth to press a kiss to Virgil’s knuckles. “It’s your Christmas present. I just hope you’ve got me something that’s as good as – well, _everything_ I’ve got you.” 

“You won’t be getting anything if you carry on,” Jordan says absently, plugging the aux cable into his phone and scrolling through YouTube for a Christmas playlist. It had started snowing while they were walking on the beach, tiny little flakes blowing through the wind, and Jordan is finally feeling Christmassy. He probably shouldn’t be, considering they’re flying to Qatar tonight and needs to focus on that, but still. “Just shut up and drive.”

“Yes, sir,” Virgil says again, staring at the road but grinning widely, and those words really shouldn’t make Jordan feel the way they do. 

**_18.12_ **

Whoever came up with the idea of night flights is truly fucking horrible.

Virgil is truly fucking horrible too. Sure, Jordan had had a great day out at the seaside, but at what cost? He needs sleep desperately, and Virgil knows that, but by the time they'd got back to Liverpool what with all the traffic, there hadn't been any point in going bed. They needed to be at Melwood for eleven for the coach to take them to the airport, and that had only given them forty five minutes to get everything sorted before it turned up – except now, the coach has been delayed, too.

It's only a few minutes delayed, that's what Pep keeps telling him reassuringly, but so far it's been thirty and he's still staring down at the same tabletop in the canteen as he was thirty _five_ minutes ago. Virgil is sat next to him, fingers linked loosely between their thighs as he talks quietly to Gini, knowing that Jordan couldn't handle any conversation right now (especially not a loud one). It's nice that they know each other that well, to be honest.

He leans into Virgil's side, resting his weight on the younger man's bicep and head on his shoulder, because if this coach is late then he's certainly going to at least try and get a little bit of sleep. His skin still smells like sea salt and if he rubs the tips of his fingers together, they feel sandy, but it's more comforting than annoying. It reminds him of the incredible day they'd had – even if he blames Virgil for the lack of sleep.

Okay, so maybe Virgil isn't _that_ horrible.

"You look knackered, sweetheart," Carol says when she approaches the table. She runs her hand through Jordan's hair, having known him longer than anyone, and then the smell of coffee is wafting through the air. He looks up with bleary eyes. "Drink this, I think you'll need it."

The mug is warm in his hands and honestly, exactly what he needs. Still, it's not – the usual type of mug that gets passed around Melwood; a different shape and a lot smoother, and he eventually manages to find the energy to look down at it. It's not red, either, and it doesn't have the liver bird emblazoned on the front.

"Happy Christmas," Virgil whispers, barely breaking from his conversation to turn and press a kiss to Jordan's head. Jordan can't stop the smile from spreading across his face and he rubs this thumb down the handle of his new mug.

It's grey, two different shades splitting it in half, and right across the middle, it says _V & J 03.03.19_.

The date they got together.

Virgil is already back to talking to Gini, but he has half an eye on Jordan as he takes sips of his coffee, fingers cradling the mug carefully. It might not be much, but it's one of the best presents he's ever received.

And honestly, he's probably the happiest man on the planet right now. That means more than any material object ever could. 

**_19.12_ **

There’s a hamper waiting on Jordan’s bed when he gets into the hotel room. A proper basket with cellophane wrapped around it and a big red bow keeping the ends together, nestled right in the middle of his pillows. 

“Is that why you all followed me in here?” He asks with a sigh, directing the question at Robbo, Milly, and Adam. Virgil is with them too, of course, but it would be weirder if he didn’t at this point. They’re practically attached at the hip, and Jordan isn’t afraid to admit it when Dejan teases him about it at every opportunity he gets. 

“We helped pick it, thank you,” Robbo says. He throws himself onto the bed, not listening to Jordan’s protests about him messing up the nice clean sheets, and rests his chin in his hands, looking expectant. “We have a right to be here.” 

“To be fair, they helped a lot,” Virgil admits. He settles himself in the big armchair next to the window and gestures for Jordan to get on with it, but he waits for James and Adam to make themselves comfortable before he climbs onto the bed, sitting cross legged with the hamper right in front of him.

He’s not quite sure why he’s nervous. Probably because he’s got an audience.

He pulls one end of the bow until the ribbon falls to the bed, then peels the end of the cellophane back. All he can see beneath the red tissue paper is a load of white Liverpool FC logos, and he pushes the paper to one side. 

It’s. Well, it’s literally just a collection of LFC merch, and Jordan doesn’t quite know what to say. Socks, curled into a ball and tucked inside a mug. A tie that Jordan will never, ever wear, tied into a windsor knot already. A collection of fridge magnets and three scarves, braided together. When Jordan pulls them apart, he notices that it’s a general Liverpool FC one, a Virgil one – and an Adam Lallana one.

“Think you can guess who picked that one,” Virgil says with a roll of his eyes, but he’s smiling nonetheless. He watches Jordan wring the Virgil scarf in his hands and his smile turns softer, more intimate. Jordan almost wishes that their friends weren’t here. “You’ve missed some stuff, Jord.” 

He shifts some more tissue paper to the side and sees a few little pieces that have fallen to the bottom of the basket. A headshot of Virgil, which he raises his eyebrows at – “for your wallet, so you can look at me all the time” – and a little keyring. It’s in the shape of the new home kit, with Virgil’s name and number on it. He closes his fist around it and smiles at Virgil. 

“I love it,” he whispers, struggling to get the words out around the lump in his throat. Something as simple as a keyring with his boyfriend’s name on shouldn’t make him as emotional as it has, really. “Thank you, Virg. Thank you.”

“We did not sneak around the Anfield store with your boyfriend for two hours trying to find you gifts to not even get a _thank you_ ,” Milly says from the other end of the bed. He’s trying to glare but just looks more like a kicked puppy, and Jordan reaches out to kick him playfully. “Come on, lads. I’m not having this.”

They leave, although Milly sends a wink over his shoulder at Jordan before he closes the door behind him, and then finally, fucking finally, him and Virgil are alone.

“Okay, so maybe I ran out of inspiration a little bit,” Virgil sighs dramatically, rising from his chair only to drop onto the bed in front of Jordan. He rests his head on the older man’s knee and pouts up at him, and Jordan can’t help but run his thumb along Virgil’s bottom lip. “Raiding the store was a last resort, if I’m being honest.” 

“It’s all great,” Jordan murmurs. He leans down and kisses Virgil, upside down and off centre, but it doesn’t matter. When he’s with Virgil, very touch is perfect, every hug, every kiss. Jordan could never ask for anything more. “Thank you. I love you.” 

“I love you too,” Virgil says. He’s beaming and his hand finds Jordan’s, tangling their fingers together and then resting them both on his stomach. “Now, tell me all about how you’re going to win this trophy for us. Spare no detail.” 

**_20.12, 21.12, 22.12_ **

For three days in a row, Jordan wakes up to little scraps of paper on the pillow next to his head. The handwriting is different every time – although they’re all distinctly Virgil’s writing – and they all say _I owe you!_ with dozens of little hearts or stars or kisses dotted around the page.

To be honest, Jordan is too distracted by the Club World Cup – and Virgil’s illness, every night when he complains about it until he falls asleep – to even think about the presents.

Besides – the biggest gift of all is getting to win another trophy with this team. 

**_23.12_ **

When they finally get home, exhausted but deliriously happy, there’s three rectangular shaped gifts on the dining table, wrapped in brown paper and stacked on top of each other, tied together with red sparkly ribbon. Jordan doesn’t know how Virgil got them there without him noticing, but he’s learnt to expect the unexpected these days.

“Well, go on then,” Virgil murmurs. He comes up behind Jordan where he’s standing with his hands on the table and wraps his arms around Jordan’s waist, pressing a kiss to the soft spot of skin just behind his ear. “You’ve waited long enough. Open them.” 

Jordan knows better than to argue so he does what he’s told, untying the ribbon and sliding his finger underneath the tape that’s keeping the paper together on the first gift. It’s a star map, framed and ready to hang, of the stars in the Madrid sky the night they won the Champions League. 

“It’s beautiful,” Jordan breathes, brushing the tips of his fingers over the metallic stars. He loves it, loves _Virgil_ , how thoughtful he is, and twists his head to kiss Virgil as best he can from this angle – which isn’t great, but still perfect.

“Because you’re my star,” Virgil says. It’s clearly a joke, which Jordan is grateful for, but he still kisses his cheek. His nose brushes against Jordan’s temple and his hand slides under his t-shirt, resting warm and heavy against his bare stomach. They didn’t have much time together in Doha, so Jordan had almost forgotten what this felt like. “Go on then, open the next one.” 

He tears open the paper on the next gift to find another framed art print. This time, it’s a foil map, and the writing underneath it tells Jordan that it’s the streets of Liverpool. Encased in gold forever. 

“Because Liverpool is where we met,” Virgil explains dutifully, one of his hands curling around Jordan’s. He strokes his thumb along the side of his wrist carefully, smile pressed into the older man’s shoulder. “I mean, obviously we played against each other before, but I didn’t _know_ you then. I dunno, I just thought – I wanted to commemorate the place we met, in the home that we share. To show how far we’ve come.” 

“It’s a lovely idea,” Jordan says. He leans back against Virgil’s body, pressing his head against his jaw for a second, and then looks up at him. He’s honestly never felt more loved. Where else, he thinks, could he find someone that treats him as well as this? “Thank you.” 

He doesn’t need prompting to open the next gift. It’s a framed picture of their hug from the final. To be honest, Jordan didn’t even know they were being photographed until the next day, when Trent had sent him it on WhatsApp with a message about how gross they were (but it did have three red hearts after it). He can still remember the words that Virgil had whispered in his ear.

“And this is just because I love this photo,” Virgil says. Jordan knows exactly how he feels, loves it enough to have it as his profile picture on his private Instagram, as well as the screensaver on his phone and laptop. “Because I love you.” 

“I love _you_. You’re so, so good to me. Thank you – thank you so much,” Jordan says. He spins in Virgil’s arms to face him, looping his arms around the younger man’s neck and stretching up to kiss him, again and again and again until neither of them can breathe. When he speaks again, his voice is low and hoarse. “Now take me to bed.” 

.

They managed to fit an hour nap in before they had to be out again, and Jordan was eternally grateful. He felt like he hadn’t slept for a _week_ , and finally getting to sleep next to Virgil again was a blessing in itself.

But all good things must come to an end, he knows that, and they had to be ready for the club’s Christmas party by seven. Neither of them will be drinking, because Virgil is still recovering from his illness and Jordan doesn’t drink mid-season, but still. They’ve had a great year. They deserve to celebrate all their achievements. 

“You look fit,” Jordan says, sitting on the edge of the bed. He’s already dressed, hair slicked back and suit straightened to perfection, but obviously he’s still waiting for Virgil. He might be organised on the pitch, but off it – it’s an entirely different story. Jordan watches the younger man fix his suit in the mirror, smirking at him as he does so. “Like a sexier – and Dutch – James Bond.”

“Is that doing it for you? All Casino Royale?” Virgil asks, turning around and taking two steps towards Jordan. Jordan’s legs fall open a little wider and he stands between them, looking down at him with dark, dark eyes. He trails a finger gently up the centre of Jordan’s throat, and then uses it to lift his chin. “Maybe we should skip the party… See how good your poker skills are instead.”

“As nice as the offer is,” Jordan says. He curls his fingers around the backs of Virgil’s thighs just because he can’t resist, and pouts until Virgil leans down to kiss him gently. “And as much as I’d love to – we really need to get going. We’re already late.”

“Spoil sport,” Virgil sighs, but he takes Jordan’s hands and pulls him to his feet anyway. They kiss for long, long minutes, until the little psychological alarm clock in Jordan’s head is screaming at him (and it’s quite handy for captain’s duties, honestly). “I didn’t forget about today’s present, by the way. Here.”

He hands Jordan a little box, sleek and black with a dainty red bow on it. _An engagement ring_ , his mind supplies unhelpfully, but he mentally rolls his eyes at himself and shakes the thought off. He opens it and finds a pair of cufflinks, shining silver with **vvd** etched into the corners.

Virgil takes them out of the box carefully and gestures for Jordan to lift his wrists up, fingers cradling them like they’re something delicate as he fastens them onto his shirt. And Jordan thinks about it, thinks about Virgil’s initials pressing into his skin until they’re marked there, and then when he can’t take it anymore, he surges forward and kisses Virgil until he can’t breathe.

“Maybe we can get away with being half an hour late,” Jordan grants, and feels his entire body go hot at the grin Virgil gives him in return.

**_24.12_ **

Sometimes, Jordan thinks he loves Christmas eve even more than he loves Christmas day itself. The rush of knowing that everything is finally ready, the excitement of all the gifts under the tree, the _anticipation_. The fact that he knows he’s getting to spend his first Christmas with the love of his life – something that he feels like he’s waited forever for.

Even training is good natured. Not that it isn’t normally, but even more so today, and Klopp rolls his eyes at the reindeer antlers Robbo is wearing and tells them they only have a two hour session scheduled. They all stuck around for lunch though, and exchanged Secret Santa gifts.

(Jordan got a proper hardback copy of Diego fucking Costa’s book. He’s pretty sure it was Dejan, and when Jordan had glared at him, he got a smug, shit eating smile in return. So, definitely Dejan). 

(But he’s too much in the Christmas spirit to actually give a fuck, plus Virgil had had his hand on Jordan’s thigh all through lunch).

They drive the short distance home with a Christmas playlist on, Elton John and Wizzard blaring out of the speakers full volume. Even Virgil is singing along now, and Jordan laughs, head thrown back and cheeks bright red. He has a feeling that this Christmas might just be the best one yet. It has to be, if he’s spending it with that man. There’s no other option.

“Are you sure we got everything for tomorrow’s dinner?” Virgil asks as they get out of the car, spinning the keys on his finger. He’s probably more stressed about it than Jordan is, which is – weird, really, considering he’s the one that’s usually uptight about everything.

Or so Virgil says, anyway. Jordan is inclined to disagree.

“We have everything,” Jordan says fondly, nudging Virgil’s shoulder with his own as they walk up the driveway. It’s one of the few days a year that they don’t get their food cooked for them and placed right in front of them, so maybe that’s why. Actually having something to think about is sending Virgil’s brain frazzled. “Just – shut up and enjoy the peace while you can. My mam and dad will be here waiting tomorrow when we’re done with training, and then you won’t get even five minutes of silence.”

“Fine. I’ll just never speak again,” Virgil huffs, but it’s teasing and good natured. He links his fingers with Jordan’s and drags him into the house, pressing him up against the wall and shoving a thigh between his legs. He kisses him deeply, tongue swiping slow against Jordan’s bottom lip and rocking against him. “So I won’t get to tell you that you can have your penultimate present in a minute – if you want it.” 

“Don’t be a grinch,” Jordan hums, smiling against Virgil’s mouth. He hooks his arms around the younger man’s neck, hands crossing at the back, and presses another soft kiss to the corner of his lips. “Of course I want my present. I’ve got high expectations now.” 

Virgil sighs, like he’s put out by the request, but pulls away and takes him into the living room. He reaches under the tree, around the back where Jordan can never quite be bothered to put presents, and passes the neatly wrapped box over to him. “I spoil you,” he mutters, but kisses Jordan’s forehead anyway.

It’s a planisphere, a little square piece of wood with a cut out heart at the top, a quote that reads _my favourite memories are always with you_ , and both of their names engraved into it. There’s also a wheel at the side, and when Jordan thumbs it downwards, some writing appears inside the heart.

**The first time we kissed.**

He turns it again.

**Seeing you lift our first trophy.**

Slides it down. 

**The first time you told me you loved me.**

Spins the wheel and watches it change.

**Moving in with you.**

Pushes it down again, words disappearing and reappearing. 

**Realising that you are my _universe_.**

Jordan breathes out, low and deep, then throws his arms around Virgil in a hug, still clutching the planisphere in his left hand. He buries his face into the curve of the younger man’s neck, breathing in that intrinsic scent that he knows so well by now. “Thank you,” he murmurs, and feels Virgil’s deep, throaty laugh at his sappiness in return. 

He just really hopes Virgil knows that he’s Jordan’s universe, too.

**_25.12_ **

“First Christmas with my crazy parents has been a success, yeah?” Jordan asks quietly, tilting his chin up towards Virgil. They were meant to be doing the washing up, but the younger man has pressed him up against the sink and they’ve not been very productive for the last few minutes. There’s a line of wetness on the back of Jordan’s t-shirt now, but Virgil’s fingers are cradling his jaw and he can’t quite bring himself to care. “You’ve enjoyed it?” 

“It’s been great,” Virgil admits, leaning forward to kiss Jordan again. He’s smiling when he pulls away, one arm around Jordan’s waist to pull him flush against his body, like his in-laws aren’t in the next room and likely to walk in at any time. “One of the best days I’ve had in a long time. Thank you.” 

He presses another kiss to Jordan’s lips, but before either of them can speak again, Jordan’s mum is calling through to them from the living room. 

“Jordan, love!” She shouts. His parents and Virgil are the only people that don’t call him Hendo these days, and it’s gotten to a point where it feels weird hearing anyone but Virgil use his first name. “There’s another box under the tree. The tag says it’s for you from Virgil!” 

“Oh,” Virgil says, quiet enough that only Jordan can hear. He’s gone significantly pale everywhere but his cheeks, which have flushed bright red, and he drops his arms to his sides. “You don’t have to open that now, Jord. Honestly.” 

“I want to,” Jordan says, beaming at Virgil. He slips away from where the younger man has trapped him against the sink and curls his fingers around his wrist loosely, pulling him towards the living room – and his abandoned gift. “C’mon, you can’t keep me away from my Christmas presents. That’s just cruel.”

“You’re a child,” Virgil says. He rolls his eyes but the colour is finally coming back his cheeks, even though it’s slightly pinker than he usually is. He looks a bit shifty, to be honest, and Jordan knows he should be worried considering his parents are going to watch him open it, but he also trusts Virgil. As if he can read Jordan’s thoughts, he speaks again. “It’s – it’s nothing like that, I promise.” 

“Good,” Jordan says, patting Virgil’s hip. His mum has left the present on the sofa that he and Virgil were sat on before they were forced to clean up, and Jordan cradles it in his hands as he throws himself back down. It’s clearly from Virgil, because it’s so carefully wrapped, neat edges and minimal tape even though it’s tiny. Jordan would’ve made a right mess of that.

He unwraps it just as carefully – or tries to, anyway. It’s probably not as effective as he thinks, but none of that matters when he feels the velvet of the black box in his palm. It takes his breath away, mind screaming at him unhelpfully (again), and he glances up at Virgil with wide eyes.

“It’s – it’s nothing special,” Virgil says quietly. Jordan opens the box to find a simple black band, wide with boards of gold, and he carefully picks it out of the box. There’s an engraving on the inside, that reads _always_ , and nothing else. Effortless, but beautiful. “It’s a promise ring. Because I’m yours, for as long as you’ll have me, and one day I want to make that official. I want you to know that I want that. Is it okay?” 

Jordan is breathless, heart pounding a beautiful pattern against his ribs, and he opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out. He just stares at Virgil with tears in his eyes, reaching out to grasp his hand.

Thankfully, Jordan’s mum answers instead.

“It’s lovely, Virgil,” she says, reaching over and clasping his knee. She’s got tears in her eyes too, and Jordan’s dad is smiling approvingly at him, and Jordan has never felt more like he’s got a complete little family. “I’m so glad that it’s you who my son ended up with.” 

“Welcome to the family, son,” Brian says, clearing the emotion from his throat. He’s talking to Virgil, holding his hand out for Virgil to shake, and when he takes it, Brian nods, then looks back at Liz. “Come on. Let’s give these two some space.” 

“Virg,” Jordan breathes. It’s the only thing he can say, even though there are a million things running through his mind and enough space in the room for them all now his parents have left the room. Still, he can’t stop staring Virgil, glancing between his face and the ring. “It’s just – it’s perfect. I love it, and I love _you_. Always.” 

Virgil lets out a laugh of dizzying relief, hand cupping the back of Jordan’s head to kiss him fiercely. Then he gently takes the ring out of Jordan’s hand, fingers gripping his knuckles, and slides the ring onto his finger. The sight of it is perfect, and he curls his fingers into a fist just to watch the way the light reflects off the black metal. Virgil lifts Jordan’s hand to kiss his knuckles, his wrist, the ring. 

“Always,” Virgil says, and Jordan trusts that he means it entirely.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ [georginiwijnaldum](https://georginiwijnaldum.tumblr.com/) xo


End file.
